


His Girl Friday

by rowofstars



Series: A Thousand Miles Down [1]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Boss/Employee Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Politics, Pre-Relationship, Swearing, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-10-07 01:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17356703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rowofstars/pseuds/rowofstars
Summary: Malcolm Tucker needs a PA. Sam Cassidy needs a job. It's kismet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rufeepeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rufeepeach/gifts).



> The first of what will likely be more. All of it as canon compliant as I can make it. The series title is from a Florence and the Machine song. Don't ask me why. This is probably crap, but here we are. For Ru, who is a treasure and a delight and a blessing.

_Fuck._

Malcolm Tucker sagged in his chair and covered his face with his hands, pressing his fingertips over his eyes, behind which a dull throb had started to build. For a moment he wondered if he could press hard enough to just pop his fucking eyeballs out and spend the rest of his life blissfully unaware of how fucking stupid and useless everyone in this fucking Number Ten Downing Street building was because he couldn’t see the fucking newspapers or the steady scroll of the news ticker. He supposed he’d still be able to hear the twats though, and he'd miss out on seeing enough other things that in the end it wouldn’t be worth it.

The party had been in office for only forty-five days and in that time Malcolm had managed to hand hold the newly elected Prime Minister through five potentially horrible TV interviews, bury four junior minister fuck-ups, and run through three personal assistants, the most recent having just dropped her resignation on his desk a few minutes ago, at his request. He ran his hands down his face and sat up, picking up his Blackberry and flipping through a couple of new messages before dropping it back on the desk. 

He got it. He was difficult at his best, utterly terrible at his worst, but he got shit done and that’s what mattered in the long run, at least to his superiors and to the party as a whole. He knew where most of the bodies were buried, had suspicions about others, and had personally dug a few holes himself. But in the grand scheme of things he thought he was relatively easy to please.

Don’t. Fuck. Up.

It was a pretty simple rule, yet so few seemed able to follow it. Now he was faced with having to handle the latest almost-catastrophe by himself. He needed a good, no a fucking _great_ PA, but for now he’d settle for a warm body that could type at least seventy words per minute, make a decent cup of coffee, and not fuck up before noon.

With a heavy sigh, he pushed away from his desk, snatched his jacket from the back of his chair, and stalked out of the office.

 

 

* * *

 

_Shit._

Sam Cassidy sagged against the back of the seat and let out a breath. She was late. She hated being late, but taxis and mid-morning London traffic were two inescapably necessary and annoying things conspiring against her. Anymore she just wanted the interviews to be over so she could quit her PA job with that too handsy solicitor and be in a place where she thought she might do some good. And maybe not get her arse leered at or grabbed every time she went for coffee.

Though this was politics, so that was probably still going to be an issue.

The taxi finally pulled up to the back entrance of Number Ten Downing Street, and she took a slow deep breath before getting out. She checked her bag and her portfolio with the newly printed, crisp copy of her resume, and strode to the door. After showing her ID and having it compared to a clipboarded list, the guard nodded her through, and she hurried inside before she lost her nerve.

She ran into him on the stairs.

Literally.

“Oi! Watch where you’re going you daft-”

Malcolm stopped mid sentence, as soon as he was hit with the steady glare from a pair of dark brown eyes. She was young, dressed quite professionally in a basic black suit, and despite her being several inches shorter he felt instantly chastised into silence.

As soon as she righted herself, Sam was met with a hard stare from a tall, hawkish figure in a grey suit. His mouth gaped open at her, his rather expressive eyebrows doing a more than adequate job of conveying his general annoyance.

“Excuse you?” she said, raising an eyebrow. He seemed familiar, but she didn’t know why.

“ _Me?_ ” he replied, eyebrows shifting from annoyed to surprise as his eyes went wide.

“ _You_ ran into _me._ ”

His mouth opened and closed, lips twisting at a frown. “I - that’s not -”

He stopped and huffed, hands on his hips.

“Look, I’m already late for my interview and you’re making me later.”

She started back up the steps with a quick ‘have a nice day’ tossed over her shoulder, but he hurried after her.

“Hold on. Interview?” he asked.

She stopped at the top of the staircase, a step above him, and turned. “For the PA spot in Transport.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” He smiled. “Look, I’m very busy this morning. Do you mind if we do this on the way to my office?”

She gave him a skeptical look, but allowed him to lead her back down the stairs, still not sure why he seemed familiar.

“I was told I was going to be interviewed by a panel,” she said while trying to look at him from the side, and keep up with his quick, long gate.

He smiled again. “I’m speeding up the process.”

She figured she was late enough that she’d already lost the job, but if he wanted to interview her anyway, so be it, and at first it seemed relatively normal and above board. He asked all the usual questions, how many years had she been a PA, (three), how fast she could type, (eighty-five on a good day), did she mind working late, (of course she didn’t).

They turned down a paneled hallway lined with outdated artwork, and came to what she presumed was his office. He gestured for her to enter first, and then stopped just inside the doorway.

“Of course you mind,” he said.

“What?”

“Working late,” he replied. “Of course you fucking mind. Everyone fucking minds, unless their sorry excuse for a life consists of tweeting abuse at the Kardashians from their mother’s basement. No one wants to be stuck here until two in the fucking morning cleaning up the sewage that dribbles out of these fucking useless morons’ mouths on a daily basis.”

Her eyes went wide at his language, and years from now she would wonder why this wasn’t the moment where instinct took over and she ran and never looked back. She would also wonder why her first instinct was to smile, instead of run and never look back.

“This isn’t the Transport Department is it,” she said, and it was definitely not a question. “And you’re not Tom.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Nah, Tom in Transport’s a boring fuck, and so is his department. It’s all about cars, buses, trains, boring fucking stuff. But look, I’m in desperate need of a good PA, and even though I don’t know you from Adam, you’re here, and you haven’t run screaming yet. Fuck knows why, but the job is yours if you want it.”

She blinked and sat back.

“And I need you to start as soon as possible,” he continued, his rather prominent eyebrows lifting. “And by that I mean right fucking now.”

She laughed. “Are you _mental?_ ”

“Probably.” He shrugged and rocked back on his heels. “Usually.”

Then he smirked, the corner of his mouth curving slightly into an almost half smile, and it did something to her insides that she chose to ignore.

“Do you always talk like that?”

“No.” He took a step towards her, pushing his suit jacket back to tuck his hands, which so far had been very active parts of the conversation, into his trouser pockets. “Most of the time it’s much worse.”

Her lips twitched. At least she knew he was being honest. Her head tilted slightly, like she was studying him, and she could tell that for a second it unnerved him. She liked that.

“Well, so far you’re better than the grabby prick I’m currently working for,” she said, assuming that if he was going to use foul language, then she could too, at least if it was just the two of them.

He gave her a dark look. “Grabby?”

“It’s nothing -”

He stepped towards her again, now just at the edge of her personal space, and she was the one feeling a touch unnerved.

He frowned. There was no tolerance in him for people in positions of power taking advantage of others in that way, especially subordinates. It was one of the things he wouldn’t stand for with his staff or those he served.

“Would you like me to inform the sexist pig that you’re resigning effective right fucking now?”

His voice was low and even as he spoke. It made her swallow hard.

Shaking her head, she answered, “No, I don’t need your outdated chivalry. I can handle it myself.” Then she took a quick breath. “In fact it would probably be the highlight of my tenure there to tell him exactly where to shove his fat little arse pinching fingers.”

 _Oh_ he liked her. He caught himself hoping she didn’t fuck up too badly in the next three days because he might feel bad having to fire her.

“Oh, it’s not chivalrous at all, darling,” he said, laughing softly. “I just really enjoy having a bit of a shout at morons and tossers.”

“Right,” she smiled. “Well, then, guess I should actually introduce myself, Sam Cassidy.”

He shook her outstretched hand, pleased that there seemed to be no hesitation on her part, but also wondering how fucking bad her current boss was that she thought he was worth saying yes to before she even knew what fresh new Hell this job was going to be. Maybe later, he’d actually bother to read her resume and track the fucking prick down. Maybe he’d send Jamie for a visit.

“Malcolm Tucker,” he said, finally, and then let her hand drop.

Sam’s mouth fell open in a silent _oh_. Now she knew why he seemed familiar. And now she was wondering what the hell she’d gotten herself into.

Later that evening, after a whole day of filling out paperwork, establishing that it was definitely _Sam_ and never Samantha, and trying to get even half of a view of her new job’s landscape, she sagged on the couch next to her boyfriend. They’d been on and off for ages, though mostly on now, she supposed.

“How’d it go?” Will asked.

She shrugged. “I really don’t know. It was sort of a blur.”

He gave her a strange look. “Transportation is that confusing?”

“No,” she laughed, tipping her head back as she realized that for the first time in years she might be looking forward to going to work. “Not exactly.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's first few day of work are mostly what she expects, but in Malcolm Tucker's office one must always expect the unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the lovely comments on the first chapter.

Malcolm tried to go easy on her the first few days, but the fucking twats surrounding him just wouldn’t allow it. It was the morning of her third day when she overheard her first official Malcolm Tucker bollocking. Part of him wished he could have seen her face when he called a junior minister in Health and Safety a lying, useless sack of old chewing gum, and threatened to wad the idiot up and stick him on the underside of his desk so the moron could stare at his balls all day. But another part of him didn’t want to know what she really thought of his less than respectful language and foul imagery, and didn’t want to see the cringing or the disappointment on her face. He didn’t know why that seemed to matter.

“Get out of my _fucking_ sight!” he yelled, turning away from the waste of skin causing the stabbing pain in his temples.

He could hear the hurried footsteps and the sound of the door opening. His fingers pressed to his forehead for a moment, and he let out a breath before moving to the door, already composing a pseudo-apology to Sam.

“Sam, I - oh...”

He stopped and barely avoided running into her, but she swayed out and around him, moving through the doorway into his office with a mug of coffee in her hand and a folder tucked under her arm.

“I thought you might need a recharge after that,” she said, striding over to his desk to set the cup and folder down. “Four and a half minutes, almost non-stop. Impressive.”

There was a quirk to her lips when she turned around, and he smiled and shrugged.

“The twats just bring it out of me. I can’t help it.”

She hummed and smiled, gliding out of the room with the same grace she entered. Malcolm shook his head and flopped in his chair, reaching out for the fresh coffee she’d left him.

Four days and no fuck ups. In fact, it was the exact opposite. She had sorted through files until the boxes and folders that had been piled around his office since he moved in were collated, labeled, and slid neatly into drawers. She already remembered how he took his coffee, and didn’t seem to be the least bit phased by the continuous stream of expletives that flowed freely in the Department of Communications.

It wasn’t just remarkable, it was a fucking miracle. 

 

 

* * *

 

“Fucking hell, Jamie, you couldn’t keep him from fucking up for _two_ hours?”

Sam heard Malcolm before she saw him, and while that wasn’t unusual at all, it was the second voice that made her look up sharply.

“I went to take a fucking piss, Malc! I come back and the cunt is flappin' his gob to some twat from the Telegraph about how the numbers aren’t really the fucking numbers.”

“Look everybody knows the fucking numbers are massaged a little before they go to the Treasury, right?” Malcolm said as he rounded the corner. “But everybody’s supposed to know not to fucking talk about it!”

They stopped by her desk and Sam finally got a look at Jamie, whom she’d only heard about in these first few days. He was Scottish, obviously, a little shorter than Malcolm, and younger too, she guessed. His hair was dark and curly, and from head to toe he looked disheveled, with his wrinkled shirt, tie just a little loose, and no jacket.

They kept going, back and forth at each other, the amount of swearing steadily increasing until they abruptly stopped like they’d finally realized she was there.

“My god, there’s _two_ of you now?” she asked, raising her eyebrows at Malcolm. The slight curve of her lips let him know she was joking, and he smirked in response.

“Who’s the new bird?” Jamie asked, looking from Sam to Malcolm and back again.

She frowned at him, but before she could say anything, Malcolm tapped Jamie sharply on the back of the head.

“Mind your manners,” Malcolm said, glaring. “She’s my new PA.”

Jamie seemed to get the message because he straightened up just a bit, tugged his tie so it was askew, and turned to Sam. “Jamie McDonald.”

Sam glanced at his outstretched hand, then up to his face, and finally reached out and shook it. “Sam Cassidy.”

A beat later she added, “So, you’re what, the enforcer’s enforcer?”

He laughed. “Something like that yeah. I just whack whoever the big fucker tells me to, and throw the bodies in the Thames.”

Sam grinned and turned back to her desk to retrieve two messages. “Calls from the Telegraph and the Mail,” she said, handing over the slips to Malcolm. “And the Tom wants to see you in thirty.”

Malcolm nodded, thanked her, and then grabbed Jamie by the arm, picking up his berating right where he left off, as he pulled his fellow Scotsman into his office. Sam sat back in her chair and shook her head.

 

 

* * *

 

The first time he hollered _Sam_ loud enough for her to hear it through the closed, solid wood Georgian door, she jumped and nearly spilled her coffee. She had the sudden fear that he was furious at her for something she did or didn’t do, or failed to do properly. In a way it seemed like it was inevitable because he was known to be a difficult person, and despite giving it her absolute best, and not really feeling like he was actually all that difficult, there were so many moments where she still thought she was floundering helplessly in deep water.

There had been a minor disaster in Defense that morning, two staff forced to resign to protect a minister, and in turn protect the PM from looking like an idiot for appointing another idiot. who apparently appointed even more idiots. She wondered if every week was going to be like this cluster fuck of idiocy, but she was also afraid of the answer.

He yelled again, and she stood up quickly.

It was late in the day, almost seven she noticed, and she sighed heavily. She should have gone home an hour ago, or at least called Will to tell him she’d be late for dinner. Her palms pressed over her thighs as she made the short walk around her desk and into his office, the door creaking a little as she pushed it open. She strode in trying to appear her usual confident, composed self, despite the fact that her brain was running through everything from the past two days looking for the thing he might hit her with first.

“Is there any coffee left?” he asked, looking up from a pile of papers and an open binder.

His hair was slightly mussed, tie loose around his neck with the top two buttons undone, and his jacket was draped over the back of his chair. He sounded so hopeful at the prospect of a hot cup, and she wanted to laugh out loud and the pathetic a picture he made.

She smiled. “I’ll make some fresh.”

When she returned a few minutes later with a steaming hot mug in her hand, his thank you was one of the most grateful sounds she’d ever heard from another human being.

The next day, she made sure there was a fresh pot brewing by five, just as she wrapped up her work and cleared off her desk, tucking folders and notebooks into her top drawer to keep them away from any prying eyes. She slipped into his office, while he was on the phone, his chair turned away from the door, and set another cup down on the corner of his desk, next to the lamp.

By the time he turned his chair around and noticed the red mug sitting there, she’d left for the day. But the contents had cooled to the perfect temperature, and after the first life giving sip he swore she might be psychic.

 

 

* * *

 

Malcolm was a classic Type A workaholic, prone to working much later than he should or than was healthy, and Sam decided early on that part of her job would have to be making sure he took care of himself before he fell apart. She figured he couldn’t very well keep all the morons in line and keep the country running if he was malnourished and low on caffeine. Before she left everyday, she checked on him, tried to find out how late he was staying, offered to order take out if he needed it. He was always grateful, but most of the time he just told her to go home, in that crass, sweary way that only he could and still somehow have it feel friendly.

Then came a day Malcolm actually left at the same time as she. He caught up to her in the hallway, taking a few quick strides to close the gap.

“Leaving early?” she asked with amusement.

He smiled, still working his arms into his wool overcoat. “I think it’s what normal fucking people call _on time_.”

She laughed lightly, and he bumped her arm with his elbow.

“You have plans then?” she asked. The immediate look on his face said yes, but she was curious if he’d tell her anything.

“No,” he replied just a little too quickly. “Just needed to be out of this fucking place for a change. You?”

“There’s some play Will wants to see,” she sighed. “I’m not much for theater, but -” She shrugged.

He gave her a look, but she couldn’t quite decipher if it was surprise or something else. “Boyfriend?”

She nodded, and they were comfortably silent the rest of the way to the back exit of Number Ten. When they reached the pavement outside, Malcolm stopped her with a hand at her elbow.

He leaned in close to her, pressing his arm against hers so he could speak quietly. “Congratulations.”

She gave him a questioning look, and turned, taking a step back. “For?”

“One month,” he replied. “Impressive.”

She laughed a little and ducked her head briefly before meeting his eyes again. “It’s not that impressive, Malc.”

He grinned. “Oh, but it is. Since apparently you’re the only one who can fucking stand me for that long.” 

She rolled her eyes. “Jamie’s been with you longer.”

“Yeah, but Jamie’s Jamie, you know. He’s a bit too fucking much like me.” He shoved his hands in the pockets of his overcoat, and for a moment she thought he looked almost hesitant. “You’re different.”

“From Jamie? I should hope so.”

They both laughed, and she eyed him a little as he shook his head and stepped close again, reaching out to give her shoulder a little squeeze.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he said, and the small confession made his throat tighten unexpectedly.

She didn’t know what to say. The gesture felt more intimate than it should, and even after his hand had retreated to his coat pocket once again, she could feel the weight of it and the pressure of his fingers, his thumb rubbing lightly over her coat before he’d pulled away.

“Good night,” she managed, with a small smile, and then she turned quickly and headed down the narrow back street.

“Night, Sam,” he replied, feeling oddly thankful that she didn’t look back.

Malcolm watched her walk away until she reached the corner and waved her arm for a taxi. When she was out of sight, he sighed and pulled out his Blackberry, scanning the new messages that never seemed to stop piling in. Then he turned around to head back inside. 

There was always too much work to be done.


End file.
